


The Man Who Bought The World

by The_Spiral_Staircase



Category: David Bowie (Musician)
Genre: 70s David Bowie, Angst, Bowie's last Tour, Concentration Camps, Dom/sub, Drug Use, End of the Eighties, F/M, Goodbyes, Hard lesson to learn, Human and Superhuman, Isolar Tour, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, New York Snow, Other, Pseudo-Nazi ramblings, Serious Moonlight Tour, Sin and Redemption, Some Fluff, Songfic, Suicidal Thoughts, Switzerland, a respectful bow to Goethe's Faust, a wink to Black Butler manga, black magic, life-threatening behaviours, obscure Hollywood cults
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-04-28 16:51:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14453616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Spiral_Staircase/pseuds/The_Spiral_Staircase
Summary: David crumbles, in physical and spiritual pain, wrecked by something he perceives as sin, because he needs to be not just a man, but a globally successful man, a beautiful man, wanted and loved by millions AND a righteous man… This can’t be done, or can it… Can one's whole universe really be bought or sold?It’s the type of bargain you can give up your soul for…





	1. Waiting in the Wings

“Hurry up, Ziggy! Stage time!”

...Well now, that’s it, that’s the last straw….

 

 

 

 

**1973** : Bowie may seem at the top of his game, but no, maybe Ziggy is, grinning on stage, while David Jones falls desperate to his knees in a private room: in his catastrophic mind he sees the whole world decaying and crumbling, but his personal situation isn’t far behind, this time. His eyes fill with searing tears and his chest feels so tight, too small for his conflicting emotions: pushing forward the Ziggy game has become a stale pantomime, eating away at David’s life, slowly at first, then terribly fast, before everyone’s drunken eyes. He can’t go on. But giving up the taste of glory, after so much chasing? No, no, that’s too bitter. The last thing David wants is his toys to be taken from him, his toy rockstar life. He wipes his nose in a resolute gesture: enough crying. He’s done with toys and games. He wants a real rockstar life, and a life on his own terms. He will do what it takes to win, now.

The door slams open, but he doesn’t turn his head yet. “Come on, Dave, what are you doin’ in here?” the backstage aide girl rushes: “Everyone’s waiting for you!!! Come get changed! And Pierre’s got all his things for your make-up already lined out!”

“OK, don’t worry, I’ll be down in a sec.” says David, turning around. His eyes are dry and almost clear now, and as he gets up effortlessly he even gives her his boyish smile: “I was just... praying”.

 

Going back to what was before?

HELL... no!

 

 

 

That very night is the right time, before he gets to change his mind. David tells his people he’s writing and not to let anyone near his room. The motley army of female and male groupies and acolytes waiting down the corridor go on whining and booing for a short while, but soon they’re whisked off by the rest of the entourage, quite happy and chuckling their way to the lifts. As they disappear and even their last echo fades, David locks the door and turns rapidly, then crouches to reach under his bed.

Takes out a case and opens it: it’s full of books and he selects one, then carefully takes its flashy sleeve off, revealing a much older, ancient-looking and precious binding underneath.

Elongated shadows move on the wall, like something out of a 1920s Expressionist film:

up in his room, alone, David performs a rite and summons powerful spirits. He says “Ok, I’m willing. Fulfil my wishes, and I’ll give you the price you ask for”. The spirits nod in assent, then everything goes up in smoke and David bends, coughing his lungs out.

A few moments after, David stands up again and clears the scene, putting everything back away, then he sits down and takes out a cigarette. He lights it with trembling hands, only to burst out coughing again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although directly inspired by David Bowie’s life and career, my story is really just fiction, FANFICTION. Pure love, lifelong, heated and mad, for a person who did the best job ever of fictionalising himself.   
> The action takes place between the early '70s and 2016, from England, to Los Angeles, then Berlin, and finally again the USA, in New York.  
> It might look like a re-telling of Bowie’s career, but actually it isn’t (no exact time or historical accuracy was cared for). It’s just like a film in which David Bowie is both the muse and the perfect actor.  
> The bitter seed at the heart of my inspiration was a horrible comment I read somewhere on Youtube immediately after Bowie’s passing, on the following day, I think. It read something like: “Finally, the Devil has come to collect his debt….”. It left me so bewildered that I could’t even reply. I just wondered who could be so terribly cold-hearted, alien and unaware of the tide of love and grief that was to follow. For a moment, my grief was poisoned, then I realized that, besides everything else, that comment was unbearably simplistic and to lash at its author would be equally simplistic. So I thought I could try and put some complexity back from where it had been brutally stripped. I would dilute the poison into a story, and I started to imagine: How would HE actually play this? A sort of film started to roll out in front of my eyes and… here it is.  
> This 8-chapter story is already written, and I should be able to post it quite regularly, just revising it a little. Tags will be completed by and by, including maaany characters and stuff.  
> Of course, I’d be thrilled to get comments!  
> Only keep in mind, it’s all written out of love and fascination. For ever and ever.  
> Spiral


	2. The Devil Counselor

“How the hell am I supposed to get out of this situation?”

“Just tell them, in front of everyone, _fait accompli_. And again, it’s Hell to you, with a capital H”

 

 

 

Nothing remarkable happens on the following day, although the whole crew is buzzing with a surplus of activity: it’s the end of this tour leg and the band and everyone else is going back home.

By then, as quite often happens, David’s mood has swung back and forth a couple of times from black boredom and dejection to resolute optimism, and his mind is full with new ideas, as usual. The memory of his little ritual is there, of course, but he is beginning to think it has all been just a dream.

The office is in a mess and that’s normal. The first thing you can hear is Tony DeFries’s booming voice,  growling at some journalist or club owner in his room, while the smoke of his big pimp cigars hangs in the air. In the meantime, colorful young people keep coming and going through the room, quickly moving stuff around like they’re on the set of a musical, and Angie is looking for all the world like a blonde Kali ordering everyone about, on the phone to Zowie’s nanny, ticking off a to-do list for the day with a hand, while scribbling the lunch take-out note with the other, when suddenly, to her dismay, someone drops a huge bag of freshly delivered mail on the desk, right in front of her: “Oh… darn! It’s too much! We can’t possibly go on like this…”

Some ten minutes later, she makes a bee line for David’s favourite haunt at their Headquarters, the Velvet Couch Lounge, and she barges right in.

“Look here, Darling!” she shouts, waving a piece of paper towards David, who’s sitting crossed-legged on a bunch of cushions, guitar in hand. He looks at her speechless and slightly peeved, having been dragged too abruptly from his thoughts. Angie goes on unfazed, with a beaming smile:  “ This one’s the one for us, I feel it!”

A couple of weeks later, Angie barges into the same room, in quite the same way, pulling a young Coco Schwab by the hand, immediately after interviewing her for the Mainman office position and deciding that yes, she’s the best candidate for the secretary position by far.

David doesn’t know yet, but his heart’s wish has been granted.

So, enter Coco. She begins helping everyone. She looks modest, but her eyes give out baleful sparkles when no-one’s looking.

She’s hard-working and often stays overtime to finish things. Some time later on, one evening when everyone is almost leaving, Angie catches her husband’s gaze lingering towards the new girl, who is still busy, nose-deep in papers at her desk.

\- Ah-ha, so, the Masterzip is in the mood for _that_ , _now_? - Angie thinks to herself, smiling. - Not exactly his first choice … but that’s quite understandable: she certainly isn’t wow-looking! However… let him have his way… -

“Hey, Love…” she says, “Bye bye, I’m going!”

“Bye, Star, I’ll see you!”, David replies without turning and Angie quietly closes the door on the scene.

What Angie doesn’t know and never would imagine is that as soon as her car can be seen leaving the office car park, Coco turns from the window where she’d been waiting and gazing outside in the last minutes, and when she looks up to face David, her expression isn’t seductive, awed or even shy, but calm and dominant, while David is looking at her wide-eyed and nervously biting his lip. Then he comes to sit by her on the window sill and says:

“So, tell me, what are our next moves to be?”

 

Yes... maybe I like you better as a frog, let me see....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTES chapt. 2:
> 
> Of course poor Coco’s position and role in Bowie’s life made her the ideal candidate for playing the demon’s part in my story, but the actual temptation came to me when I saw the picture you can see at the end of the chapter, so I guess her hairdresser is really to blame!  
> Well, I actually think she looks powerful and mysterious and yes, a little scary, like she could throw a spell on you, and turn you into a pig or a frog, just like that.  
> Instead, the picture opening the chapter is said to be portraying Bowie speaking to Wayne/Jayne County at Hotel Plaza, but in my story that's Demon-Coco wearing a bipperty-bopperty hat. The subject of discussion is David’s need to escape the whole Ziggy thing, and his qualms towards the others, the band, his fans, everyone… Demon-Coco’s advice about it is typically ruthless: just tell them it's over. And my, if that isn’t just what Bowie did.
> 
> That’s it for now, dears. Next update maybe in a week or a bit longer: busy times ahead….. :-(


	3. Black Magic in the Plastic Soul Era

Oh… _there_ you are…

Coco is not really a girl. Well, actually, she IS a girl, when the demonic force takes her shape, just as it can take others. This force isn’t exactly evil, but it is an instrument of Evil, as it was summoned by black magic. It’s a force, akin to Nature and Time, represented by lightning-like creatures, living messages, or messengers of those principles. So they are demons as well as angels, whether good or bad it depends on the circumstances.

Demon-Coco has duties, of course, and a philosophy to go by in performing them. Sure she’s there for David’s problems and his current problem is that he wants to leave this life, this place, these people. He squirms and has qualms about ‘using people and then dropping them’. Using he can do all right, more than fairly: he was born with sweet manipulation in his blue eyes. He certainly demands a lot, but normally also gives a lot in return, sharing himself even. It’s the dropping part he still has problems with.

“ I perfectly understand your need to evolve,” Coco whispers to him. “it’s normal, it’s… very healthy, my little xenomorph babe…  These people can’t follow you. They love you? Fine, better so: love gives good energy… You’ll sacrifice them to fuel new life! Oh, don’t look at me like that now!... I don’t mean literally!”

 

Hollywood’s showbiz has always been evil and has no need for professional contribution from witches and warlocks: conjuring smokes still hang in the air, trailing after the movie stars of old: when each one met their sizzling destiny, their vibration towards the occult was left, hungry for more. They didn’t create it, they merely embraced it, the faceless force sitting on the sun-baked desert pinnacles  since, well, forever.

So, when David’s limo approaches Beverly Hills, the place itself is swirling with something that just lurks and stays and watches his every move.

 

David is touring a great show in America, with lots to hear and lots to see. Very theatrical, and it’s amazing how much one can stage of himself and of his internal drama without actually revealing a thing. David’s body onstage is often bound by ropes and leashes, that he ties and unties, miming an escapist art that he doesn’t actually possess. Another favourite prop during his Tour shows are masks, which he apparently uses like mirrors or doubles of himself. Only, those masks aren’t really David’s face, but rather his demon helper’s when taking his form. A favourite trick, lately, along with other rather satisfying shape-shifting numbers.

For example, in the American period David’s special… minder sometimes likes appearing with Mick Jagger’s features, as it both unnerves David and makes him more vulnerable. It’s soft, effortless domination: the demon doesn’t need to put a chain around David’s body, it’s more like draping an arm over him in sleep, and he knows he can’t get up. No place is too far that he can’t be found by his obsessions, by the consequences of his choices, by his own talent, even, which spurs him on and on, whenever he wants to break down and just be a man living his life.

Sometimes Demon-Mick just sits by him in very loud silence, taking up room, smothering his wretched human charge with just his deadpan, gloating presence. British kids are taught not to stare, so he deliberately does. David’s sitting on the floor surrounded by drawings, note sheets and books, his beloved project of a rock opera. He’s restless and only work can soothe him, but that stare makes him feel uneasy and spoils his pleasure. He raises his eyes and Demon-Mick is still there looking at him, then he yawns like a lion, stretching his body and lazily caressing himself. David drops his pen and doubles as if in pain, and suddenly Demon-Mick is by his side, a hand to the back of his neck: “Come on and finish that, don’t be silly, you’re on to a good thing. Pick that pen up, just… don’t mind me…”

David bends, retrieving the pen, while a satanic grin spreads on Demon-Mick’s famous lips: “This mission” he thinks, “ IS fun….”

 

Leave that crystal ball alone, David: the only magic you’ll see

 in there is your own reflection. While I’m here, all fleshed out…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Thanks for the kudos! And... comments would be so welcome, you have no idea ;-)
> 
> So, here goes,  
> Notes on Chapter 3:
> 
> The pet name Demon-Coco gives David is a loving reference to his built-in talent for surviving. A xenomorph is Nature’s darling in his own way…. just not his fault if that jaw drips acid on your floors…  
> http://cdn.playbuzz.com/cdn/0b58555e-d560-4209-8b62-a5fe90bfbea9/f1a72b03-f00f-4696-999e-de3e7996b460_560_420.jpg  
> (all rights to HR Giger)
> 
> Again, I absolutely don't own the pictures, I just borrowed from their wonderful authors to tell my tale. The picture closing the chapter was taken by Sir Cecil Beaton on the set of Performance (1968).


	4. The Dregs of the Cup of Trembling

“Oh no, not Ava! You promised you wouldn’t…!”

“Yeah, and see if I care…”

 

 

Devils and temptations, old and new, abound in the New World. David is such a Brit, deadpanning his emotions, choking on shyness and defying rules all the same, taking what he wants and paying with flesh and blood and the currency of innocence. Sitting and having conversation among all black musicians like a teenage Jesus in the Temple. Living his days like you live an orgy: why 24 hours when you can have 48? Plus, doing away with sleep happens to be a solution to that unpleasant nightmare problem.

Black candles, crystal gazing and David drawing the sephiroth and pentacles everywhere… He thinks they can keep him safe enough, in charge enough. Like the little  Sorcerer’s Apprentice in a Disney cartoon, book in hand, David performs an exorcism on his indoor pool. Above him, invisible, sitting on the diving board, his Demon Helper is busy checking MainMan’s bank account balance, while absently waving a hand towards the pool waters, not even looking, like a nanny rocking a cradle.

Amanda, Ava, and others… Toys, bedmates, playmates, David tries to warm up his lonely bones, he tries not to be alone, so that his PA is just a PA, bossy, controlling, sometimes mothering, sometimes ruthless, but that she is, a PA. Everyone thinks he’s very reclusive, staying home alone to work all the time. But he’s never really alone, he’s never alone anywhere. Coco watches him come and go, finds out about everyone’s trappings and doings, makes phone calls, keeps eye on the child, although the child is no part of the contract. When she isn’t with David, she waits for him to come home. Of course, she never sleeps.

 

On a leash.

 

 

Drugs are burning in David’s blood, a fire consuming him and leaving him a living skeleton that can’t die.

Coco picks up a discarded mirror from the floor and approaches the crumpled form lying on the other side of the room, just short of the bed. Chalky white skin and half closed eyes and mouth, David really looks  dead, only he seems to be dying too often lately. As a faint breath fogs up the mirror, she gives what sounds as a pained sigh and lets it fall on the carpet, then she leans on to lift the skinny frame unto the bed. David lets out a small moan but doesn’t wake up yet: rather than asleep, he’s passed out. Coco sits on the bed, clenching her fists, a determined look in her flashing amber eyes, “I won’t let this fool die now and waste years and years of hard work. No sir, I’m not going back trailing the skin of a sick child… You’ve got so much to do and to achieve, you have no idea!”

“Come on, David, try to wake up, here’s your orange juice… Come on, drink some… David…” One hand under his head, Coco watches David’s eyes flutter open and brings the glass to his dry lips with the other,  helping him drink small sips. “There,” she says, when his hand comes up and waxy, bony fingers wrap around the glass. “Good, don’t spill that. Try and drink it all. I’m going to get you some coffee.”

“Thank you,” David’s voice comes out raspy, the first words after hours of blackout. He looks up briefly, with a grateful expression, but then his pupils shy away. Coco turns from the bed, her lips a thin, set line.

Sometimes David thinks he can escape, or at least forget his contract. His Demon lets him on a long leash, only to remind him that he’s owned, with a sadistic cat-and-mouse game of small house accidents, creepy and mysterious. Everyone’s freaking out because they can’t figure out what’s happening. David freaks out because he _knows_. David’s mind is frayed, but not as much as people think. Only, he can’t properly function here.

Not over his wife or his mother, not over his brother and not even his little son: once again, David’s heart breaks over himself, although it sums up everything, in a way, his whole world, his past and future, his chance to become a man. And David crumbles, in physical and spiritual pain, wrecked by something he perceives as sin, because he needs to be not just a man, but a globally successful man, a beautiful man, wanted and loved by millions AND a righteous man… This can’t be done, or can it… Can one’s whole universe really be bought or sold?

Hopelessly in love with himself, aching with vibrant potential not fully blown yet, he fears he may lose his chance to really fulfil his arc: if he breaks now, if he becomes a showbiz casualty, or a dropout mindless addict, his precious budding flower destiny will just wither and rot, no matter how tall and crisp and fresh when it first falls in the gutter.

 

One grey morning, that is, around two p.m., David is standing by the window clutching his coffee mug and watching the rare phenomenon of Hollywood rain. He doesn’t know, he can’t fully realize it, but his decision is taken, it’s happened overnight: his soul, such a clean, strong one by nature, was pushed to the brink for one last time and finally had enough, so it wriggled out of the terrible spiritual leprosy that had been affecting it. If he has time to wake up properly, he will realize it clearly and even get back in possession of his freedom.

The Demon jumps up with a start, sensing danger: “Fuck! What was I thinking? We can’t have that! Now, this is what comes of dozing by the swimming pool, cocktail in hand! Let’s nip it in the bud…” With a piercing look, she sees in David’s heart with more clarity than David himself, reading him like a book, and after a short while she shakes her head and looks up, murmuring to herself: “…All riiight, the decision’s taken then, he wants to leave… but he must go on  thinking it’s all my idea!”

David’s still there, all wobbly, trying to chop a line on his glass nightstand, but he’s too weak even for that. Now he doesn’t even remember the decision he’s taken in the night. When he looks up, he meets Demon-Coco’s frown:

“That’s it! Enough of this crucifixion game… If you think I’ll let you go on performing this phony atonement for yours or anyone’s sins, you’re very, very wrong, babe! Leave sins business to professionals, and get your toys: we’re leaving this place. You may want to bring a friend. Yes, that Iggy freak is ok… He’s the only one I like, actually”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here goes: long chapter, long notes.
> 
>  
> 
> The swimming pool exorcism actually took place in Bowie’s Doheny Drive house in L.A. (you can read about it in any Bowie biography). I really want to state again that basically everything and everyone else here is invented, or an artistic manipulation based on interviews or songs. Bowie himself is very much an invented character in this story, sweeter and maybe weaker, certainly very ambiguous morally speaking. I wrote him like this to emphasize the power of the Demonic Helper, who is actually channeling both the influence of drugs and of the music production machine.
> 
> As regards the specific theme of occult worship in Hollywood, maybe one book title would be enough to contextualize: Kenneth Anger's “Hollywood Babylon” I and II, at least to start (I mean, if you do wish to start and look deeper into such things). Then, there’s lots you can read on the Net, quite interesting stuff, if scary. In fact, I’m scared to link it: google it for yourself! :P
> 
> In the opening picture:  
> the beautiful black girl with David is Ava Cherry, a back-up singer and one of his fiancées in the early ‘70s. As to “Amanda”, of course that will be Amanda Lear, and she does enough talking about herself by herself.
> 
> The child Demon-Coco keeps an eye on is obviously Zowie, David’s son: every Bowie fan knew about him and he really was THE child! Look here, and your heart will melt:  
> https://i.pinimg.com/originals/e3/49/72/e349728cbe964bdd3c603c2b98de99d5.jpg
> 
> Finally, the MainMan Company,  
> in the person of the impresario Tony DeFries, managed Bowie’s “interests” for years in the 70’s. As a result, the company ended up in debt, the talented but gullible Bowie became famous and famously broke, while DeFries made his fortune for quite a long time, although not forever. Like everybody else in my story, DeFries here is purely a character, a bad one. David’s Demonic Helper both hates and likes him: he/she hates him for several reasons, but basically because no one, but really no one ELSE is allowed to be greedy around David. And all the same, he/she actually mostly likes Tony’s big, fat, black soul, so full of bad actions, so rewarding, a real insurance for any devil’s rainy day... Muahahahahah!!!!!!!!!


	5. Darts in Lovers' Eyes

Those were definitely OUR times!

 

 

 

1976: David sails on. Out with the Soul Boy, here comes The Thin White Duke. No more Philadelphia or L.A.: Berlin now, Schöneberg.

His Helper muses:

“Hmmmm…. that ladyboy cabaret entrepreneur Romy Haag already has a perfect demonic appearance, it’s so easy to be her around David! Shame it won’t last. Real shame… even I turn sentimental watching them… they’re so beautiful, so doomed… They look like the ultimate club royalty, but this poor Romy doesn’t realize how much of a Black Prince my baby actually is: he will cry and slit her throat over his divorce case. Transvestite lover? Never! But take a look at these pictures of my unfit wife!.... Nothing like another sacrifice of love to get that extra energy boost… Oh boy, you’re a delightfully fast learner! But… isn’t that hidden portrait of yours getting a bit ugly?... Just jokiiing!”

And meanwhile, The Thin White Duke muses:

“Heute hört mich die ganze Welt, und morgen… England!”

 

A rare day-off in between concerts of the Isolar Tour I and in between bouts of creative hyperactivity. David’s just back from Northern Europe. On and offstage, he’s the Thin White Duke now, the opinionated and stunningly beautiful incarnation of hubrys, so elegant and proud.

However, at the moment he’s here, curled up on the couch of his hotel suite in London. He let his smart black shoes drop on the floor to join his fine waistcoat and now he’s resting with his head in Coco’s lap, in just his crisp white shirt and dress trousers, a bit weary with the weight of the world.

Coco is cradling his head and slowly slicking back his hair, and David doesn’t see her hazel pupils slowly harden to sparkling stones. Then she speaks, in a gradually changing tone voice:

“You… beautiful…. Aryan beast, what do you think you’re doing? Really, when I watch you up there onstage you make me dream of other lives, and greater times… but we’ve rocked that scenario already… don’t think we can squeeze in any more sin or blacken any more souls, you see... Plus, I’m totally against your individual damnation and distruction while here on this Earth, I mean, that would be a major breach of contract…”

David shifts on the wide, plush couch and looks up in his Demon Helper’s amber eyes, a bit puzzled, but also pleased with himself, because he thinks he understands what the other is on about. He lets his head down again in the demon’s hands and even smiles a little, watching the buttons of his white shirt slowly pop undone, one after the other.

“Stupid little beast,” she whispers, “ …what were you thinking in that lovely skull of yours? I guess you really looked like you were hailing the crowds from that car, although I know you were just… waving, mein little Führerling? You just didn’t mean it, right? Like when you shared your personal, bright discovery that Hitler was ‘the first rock star’! …Oh, how endearing, you really enjoy feeling like the brightest in the class, lecturing the others, but this is no school!”

David turns his head up a little, frowning, while Demon-Coco continues: “You assume the world will understand, and maybe even thank you for disclosing truths! Instead they’ll put you in hell while here on earth and take it out on you! They’ll make you pay for filthy sins from before you were born…  That’s what will happen…” she says, poking David’s delicate chest with a hard finger, and a sudden snarl: “How about  some rotten mass-grave liquor on your immaculate shirts?…”

David sits up looking cross and tries to reply: “Don’t start giving me a history lesson, now!”, but the demon promptly grabs him back, with a dangerously soothing voice: “Oh come here, Darling, or should I say, Schatzi… You like education now, yes? You’re self-taught, aren’t you… come then, for some self-teaching!”

The demon in the room suddenly takes the exact form and aspect of David, his elegant clothes and his angelic, martial features. The real David now cowers in fear, wriggling to get free, while Demon-David is laughing handsomely as he grabs his human counterpart by the hair and drags him forcibly up close, holding him in an iron-clutch. David’s visibly shaking now and every breath comes out of him in a little stifled cry of terror, while the other produces a book of photographs from under the cushions, one that wasn’t there before. “Here, look! Family pride: this book is a collection of my human father’s photos… Such a document, I guess we Jews are really made for memories! Oh yes, take a look at these, and these, from Buchenwald! You can’t do better, can you?” Human David gives an anguished cry at the heart-wrenching pictures put in front of him and starts to struggle madly, trying to avert his eyes, but Demon-David holds on him so fast by the scruff of the neck and he can do nothing but look, his eyes filling up with tears.

“Well, of course, _something_ could be done better, because this man’s soul, this one in the picture, was…. so disgustingly righteous”, Demon-David says, his upper lip curling, “and so…. saintly, that no pit of infernal evil could stain it, and believe it or not, minutes after the picture was taken, up it flew, in fucking glory!”

His lips smack in feigned dismay, but his eyes are stern and serious as he drops the book, also letting go of Human David, who turns to hide his face with a hand, and props himself up with the other to get away, only to be grabbed again.

“Oh, you’re crying now! Nooo, it was just some… self teaching! “ Demon- David’s voice becomes velvety, his grip tightening hard and inescapable around the other’s wrists. “Don’t worry, I’ll set everything straight, I’ll tell you what to do, it just takes… time” adds the angel-featured demon, laying down comfortably by his human counterpart. “I’ll be by your side, here, as usual… Now be sweet... and turn around for me. Like that… Don’t cry, it’s just …education!”

Human David feels a hand as soft as his slide by the side of his cheek and wipe tears away. Then the hand begins to snake further down, on his chest, so he hides his face in the cushion, with a sob.

 

The Thin White Duke, up to no good.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! This is The_Spiral_Staircase to Ground Control… Anybody there? :)  
> There’s quite a lot to say for this chapter!
> 
> The whole scene is built around a famous controversial episode which actually took place during the Isolar Tour in the mid '70s, when Bowie was seen and photographed at Victoria Station waving at his fans with his arm outstretched while standing in his Mercedes convertible. Nazi salute? He denied, but the episode jeopardized his career, along with contemporary statements, in which he suggested that ‘Hitler was one of the first rock stars’, that ‘England could benefit from an authoritarian leader’, and that he… happened to feel qualified.  
> I think there can be no better explanation, apology or analysis of the whole thing than what a saner and much older Bowie later declared: “My interest in the Nazis was the fact that they supposedly came to England to find the Holy Grail at Glastonbury… The idea that it was about putting Jews in concentration camps and the complete oppression of different races completely evaded my extraordinary fucked-up nature at that particular time” (See http://www.nme.com/blogs/nme-blogs/six-70s-myths-about-david-bowie-761066, for some actually delightful and useful reading on that and other aspects, also quite relevant to my story, although I had already completely written and revised it when the article came out).  
> However, true episode or not, it all comes down to a matter of opinions, and the Demonic Helper certainly has one. In his primeval wisdom, he gets pissed at the Thin White Duke for being arrogant, unwise and superficial, and decides to administer him a stern correction. Again, this story is very much about sin, fearing it, committing it and paying for it. And when it comes to sin, this Demon is not much for outsourcing, so he chooses to even things out in the here and now, for his own (and our) satisfaction. The terrible pictures he uses to lecture David were actually taken by Eric Schwab, Coco Schwab’s father in real life, who was among the first photographers to witness and capture what the Allies found entering Nazi lager camps in 1944. Among those, he took the picture of a prisoner who could unfortunately just glimpse freedom, as he died immediately after. It was that picture (‘Dysenteric Dying’) that David Bowie chose as Picture Of The Century for Die Zeit in 1998.  
> To read an excellent account of Eric Schwab’s work and see some of the pictures in question: https://correspondent.afp.com/eric-schwab-photographing-unspeakable  
> I hope it’s ok to link it, just for the sake of culture, of awareness and, ultimately, of redemption.  
> But in case it isn’t, and if there’s any trouble with anything that I’m including, photos or links, please just let me know and I will take it down: I don’t own anything except my creativity and I’m not after any profit. End of official disclaimer …ouf!!!
> 
> Er… Not over here, yet… 
> 
> A few more things, like:  
> “Heute hört mich die Welt, und morgen… England”, that is: “Today, it’s the whole world that hears me, and Tomorrow, it will be England!"  
> In his megalomaniac and deluded mind, my Thin White Duke character is borrowing some famous words allegedly pronounced by Adolf Hitler (“Today Germany, Tomorrow the whole world!” But no, apparently Hitler never said that, although he probably would have liked things to go just that way). Only, the Duke twists them according to his own ideal campaign: both the Isolar Tour and Bowie’s fame had their beginnings in the New World, coming to England later, for the proverbially difficult domestic conquest.  
> However, Bowie had a tremendous ability to pick up languages and accents, and his German version of “Heroes”, “Helden” will forever be special to me.  
> Then,  
> the ugly hidden picture David is being mocked about is obviously Dorian Gray’s, a trope David himself thought about at several points in his career (the most open reference being his promo video for Look Back in Anger, 1979).  
> And finally… something else is hidden here, in my chapter:  
> a less obvious element, that is a quote from a song, not one of Bowie’s, connected to the general theme of aesthetic authoritarianism. It is actually a fine song, from a fine album by a controversial, but worthy band. Historically, my association is an anachronism, but I’m pretty sure it would fit The Duke’s morbid fascinations and his Demonic Helper’s romantic lust.  
> Can you guess where it is hidden and the title? ;-)


	6. The Devil's Meal

1983

 

M-money-money-money, how did that song go? Money’s so good! They crave it, they make it, they blow it, and then they’re out of it and it all starts again, wonderfully. And they kill for it, and screw each other over it… Oh, I wax romantic! The good times I got out of this mission, even with unexpected advances on the final reward, given the developments that put me in such favourable light with my superiors… Let’s just say Tony DeFries won’t need to flash his business card when he finally checks in: he has made himself quite a big name down there… Ah Tony, Tony… they say: The Devil’s meal is half bran… but _you_ , for me, are my retirement plan!

My baby’s sleeping now, he’s been working sooo hard. I’ll try on some of his clothes for him: sharing frock and shoe sizes saves an awful lot of time when you’re planning a world-conquering tour!

 

 

Just look at us…

 

“Peroxide hair suits me, when I’m you, don’t you think, Sleeping Beauty? It positively _looks_ devilish, believe me. Or maybe it’s the glow of all that gold coming your way… Darling, it was about time, you really deserved this much success and fame and money. So talented you are, my boy!”

“And you will need a special talent indeed, to dodge what will come _after_ this much success, and fame, and money… Oh, you’ll stumble for good, but I’ll be there to catch you.

 I’ll be there, to _get_ you.”

 

 

New Year’s Eve 1989! …What?!

The clock’s chiming now, right as I’m sitting on top of this bell tower in Switzerland, where WE now reside. It’s the end of the Eighties! What started as high ringing is now ending  in funerary toll and knell.

As many times he had risked to die in my arms, in the Seventies, when he wanted so much to live, in the Eighties he looked at himself and didn’t say anything, but I could feel his thoughts, I could feel his death wish. And what results we had achieved! He could say he had flown higher than Icarus, and I had done my job well, or so I thought, waiting now for my moment to be called upon.

Gosh, and what did he do? Oh, he _did_ cry and call on me, from his high-dollar joint, where he felt trapped and miserable. And the time was right, the time was up, but well… Wait some more, I had to tell myself, I am so good a demon I can come and lick his wounds, and then I can re-open them overnight. I can plague him with further emptiness. I can smother him with loneliness.

Only, the pain I feel myself has started to taste almost as sweet. But never mind.

What makes ME sick is his remorse, as he fights to ween off booze, drugs and all the rest. I’d like to slap him and make him kneel,  like in the good old times, but I can’t, not anymore. As he gets up off the floor, I help him to the bathroom, I help him change into clean clothes, I watch him comb his hair. Hmmmm… if he stumbles, I’ll get him, but if he doesn’t…

And what did he do, what did he do… All of a sudden, he thought of himself as a man, and he jumped out of my spell, he twisted his future, and he got lucky. He thought of himself as a man, and went out to find himself a woman. Then another life sprang out of it all, and I thought: “So… he went for the other trail… Ok, no problem, I’ll reap that as well. Maybe.  Some unexpected extra, the more complete his experience, the richer and rarer the soul. Let’s wait for a natural resolution of the contract. He’s not going anywhere, right? Let’s… just… wait.”

 

The Century Turns

Like in the beginning of this story, there are two: Bowie is beaming in public, never gives monosyllabic answers anymore, looks good-humoured, and flashes flawless new teeth. In private, a stiff-lipped David Jones is balancing  the scales.

The Sorcerer’s Apprentice has become a self-proclaimed New Renaissance Man, thinking more and more of moral virtues. Now, he wants nothing more than to have a beautiful soul. He doesn’t want to be bad. On the contrary, he really wishes to be good and feels guilty for his sins. He goes back and tries to mend, takes on an advanced type of rehab. Pays for Marc Bolan’s son’s education, writes letters to Mick Ronson, turns up at Ken Pitt’s door, gives royalty credit to Iggy Pop and Vince Taylor.

His Helper, by the way, is getting more and more nervous:

“Oh, I can’t keep my mouth closed! Guilty guilty guilty… Guilty for what, I wonder...  For being differently talented? Even for borrowing ideas and making them better? Or for kissing the old goodbye and welcoming the new…?” Don’t know what I saw in this boy… I had hopes on him, but clearly he was never at ease in wearing his soul real black! …These are poor sins, definitely. And this soul is less and less fit for Hell, methinks!

And someone here is going to end up in trouble.

 

 

You can’t say you didn’t have it coming…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, well, dear readers (?): too many responses (0) for my little Chapter 5 song quiz! And coming in all (0) together, so it’s a global flo.. ahem!… ex aequo!!! Oh yesss, you all (0) got it right: the song was…. Runes and Men, by Death in June, check it out… ;-)
> 
> This here is a strange chapter, where everything is fragmented and in transformation.  
> Mostly, it’s David’s Demon Helper voicing her/his feelings. At first, it’s still just smugness and possessiveness, then the mood changes with the changing times, to restlessness and dissatisfaction. Also, it’s evident by now that this Demon has grown too keen on his human charge, more than she/he would like to admit, ever postponing the soul grabbing that their contract implied from the very beginning. So much that… the perfect timing comes and goes, and the Demon can’t bring herself/himself to end it all.  
> As his real biography goes, in the first half of the Eighties, David is experiencing the vampire bite of global success. In the second half, he will experience the terrible pangs of finding himself survived, inescapably adult and, for the first time, unable to locate a motivation. It nearly kills him for good. What L.A., the City of Devils, couldn’t do, millionaire hideaway Switzerland nearly accomplishes. How he got himself out of it, and how he crossed over his musical dire straits to the ‘90s, I merely suggested, in a rather simplistic and minimal way, as I did on his finding wife and family: that’s not what this story is about.  
> The song reference to Never Let Me Down (1987) is very important, though. It’s in that song that Bowie describes himself as ‘trapped in a high dollar joint’, ‘falling to pieces’ and ‘screaming in pain’, his ‘days slipping by’. In real life, he called Coco and once again she gave him the help he needed, whatever it was, so he wrote the song for her.  
> In my story, that’s David’s lowest point, the perfect timing for soul grabbing, and instead… it becomes the turning point. His ‘soul revival’ begins, thanks also to Demon-Coco, who keeps her eyes on him, not looking ahead anymore, and not in her heart, where an uncomfortable truth lies. Too bad her superiors have X-ray eyes…  
> As the Devil Tarot card shows.  
> Here’s the current given interpretation of the eighteenth card of the Major Arcana:  
> “while this card’s image is of supernatural origin, The Devil represents situations and ideas that are very human.  
> He is the personification of a toxic bond in your life and serves as a warning. He also stands for overindulgence and temptation.  
> The chained man and woman are symbolic of those who reap what they sow, having willingly walked into their current situation.”  
> The real news being: this card doesn’t come up in the game just for David, not anymore. The Devil comes up to warn his employee of dangerous misdemeanor. And the moment you know, you know you know.
> 
>  
> 
> Finally, an affectionate honorable mention for Kenneth Pitt. In chapter 5's notes I mentioned Tony DeFries, Bowie's manager of (too) many years, with the related highs and lows. To go with him, David dropped Ken Pitt, his former manager, or, we could say, the most important among his former managers, although David only remained with him from 1967 to 1970. Kenneth Pitt helped and financed his protégé, who got his first success, Space Oddity, while with him, but discarded him soon after for DeFries (Bowie did make it up to Ken Pitt later on though, and he called himself “his boy” long time after).
> 
>  
> 
> P.S.  
> The Bells chiming, or giving funerary toll and knell: credits to the wonderful Edgar Allan Poe and his poem (read it for example at poets.org, https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/bells).


	7. Trouble in Paradise

It was never meant to be like this, you know…

 

 

 

 

2004.

Life’s balking, as it often happens at this age, although David had long defied check-ups.

Bowie is on the bed, unconscious, a tube taped in his beautiful mouth, he’s looking all of a sudden both as an old man and a suffering child. Medics are whispering around him: he has had a heart attack, and no-one knows yet how serious. The Demon knows.

As Coco is sitting in the corridor, glassy eyed, apparently waiting for the first medical bulletin after emergency surgery, her demon-self is in another dimension, full of fury and self-hatred. No words are spoken, rather it’s like they’re burning and blazing on every wall:

“I should have _taken_ him! …But I just couldn’t. And there he is… This is past the moment, and he’s going to live now, on _his_ time!” The demon looks down at the frail human form, a feeling of pity arises, and all the fire goes out abruptly in bitter, choking smoke, as Coco chokes on her tears. “He mustn’t know, not yet! But _they_ will know…”

If David got a stern admonition and a warning-bell to administer his time wisely, the Demon fares even worse, and has to admit maladministration, facing private defeat and shame, although that will remain a secret to the human world.

David’s former warden is awaiting trial, but no Devil is in a hurry, so They make time: a couple of years pass like that. The Demonic Helper becomes a sort of witness for David’s life away from the public eye, simply watching, and remembering, and thinking.

“Well, David… I’ll retire my glamour, and you’ll have to live on your own borrowed time, just like ordinary men do. OK… well, maybe what I’ve given you was just some cosmetic boost… Maybe you’ll find out how much of your magic was actually just yours: I’ve made you think I was driving, but I’ve only really laid my hand on yours… I’ve cheated you, baby: you did it by yourself! ...OK, OK, you’re crap at things like remembering schedules, turning up on time to appointments, calling taxis by yourself… And _that_ is why I’ll stick around just a little longer.”

Then it’s like the wax of life is dripping from birthday candles. Secret, secret, never seen. Hush, let’s see if time can forget about this life, let’s see if David can accompany his little girl as she grows up to be a young woman. Let’s hide from secret magick-driven arrows as long as we can. Ten years? Not more? Ten years.

The Demon and his charge reach an unspoken understanding. Time is retired from the world and given only to family.

 

And  there it is, finally, no curses, no damnation, just simple consumption of the body. When David discovers his cancer, an embedded mechanism of time finally makes the decision David’s supernatural companion couldn’t make. It’s time to draw a line.

 

Farewell in the snow

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much to say about chapter 7, except that it’s where it begins to really hurt.  
> Chapters become shorter, but more difficult to write. Much more difficult to spin a story out of what happened in Prague the 11th January 2004, when David had his heart attack on stage. Well, it’s not like a Mark Chapman shot him, but it all really ended then and there. A crystal shattered somewhere and that blond prince we loved had to take leave and disappeared. Very much like Ziggy, we would never   
> see him again after that night. Never again so happy and carefree, so eternally young, so miraculously always in control.  
> We would see Bowie again, yes, but not only was he busy recovering, but after that he became so… busy being himself, counting his time. Maybe, for the first time in his career, he sort of walked away from us: suddenly, his public self didn’t matter anymore.  
> When he resurfaced years later, gone was the happy golden prince, replaced by a serious looking gentleman.  
> … I know, it’s just my perception. At least, let me describe it the way I feel it.  
> We had no family rights on that gentleman, although he bore such a resemblance, that we were tempted to ask; “Are you sure you’re not David’s father?”
> 
> P.S:  
> Song reference: The Secret Life of Arabia


	8. New York Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here is the final chapter. I'm not satisfied with it, but it has to go now: I'll be off for a period, without my pc...  
> As always, comments and criticisms would be very welcome, you know that!  
> And thank you for reading this far. :-)  
> xxx  
> T_S_S

 

“You’re so beautiful…”

“Thank you! I think so too!”

**2015**

 

Shortly after David got the result of his tests, his Demonic Helper took a liking to changing his appearance to Tilda’s, whenever they’re alone and even sometimes when other people were present, including once when Tilda herself was present (now there’s a girl who can keep a friend’s secret!).

David likes it that way, you can tell, especially when he’s in pain, or when he’s left so weak after his therapy: beauty soothes him, but he wouldn’t have his wife around, show himself like that. He phones her, managing some voice, some positive words, but immediately after, the phone gets so heavy he can’t even hold it, so Demon-Tilda takes it from his hand and puts it back in place for him. Then she just stays by his side, very quiet, just giving off elegance and looking at him, like a faithful greyhound.

David is resting his head on the pillows, but he’s awake, he can’t sleep. He’s looking at Demon-Tilda, then he whispers: “You’re so beautiful…” . Who he’s really talking to, it doesn’t matter. Demon-Tilda gives him a simple smile, her gaze not even slightly faltering, and says: “Thank you, I think so too!”.

 

 

Look outside!

 

**2015, Christmas Eve.**

 

“Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht… Do you remember? Look outside: the cars are slowing down, it’s the frost… And it’s snowing again.”

We won’t see another spring, David, not together.

… And fuck you, babe, you could have been such a beautiful sinner, but now that you’ve grown wings, I’ll have to let you fly away.

Yes. I should have taken you, long ago, in that hotel garage in Berlin maybe, but I was so greedy when it came to you! And I should know: Grasp all, lose all.

While you… don’t worry…

“You’ll manage to accomplish your things, David. And I won’t anticipate anything, but you’ve really made the grade forever, this time! …Me? Oh, it will be Hell, for a change. _They_ won’t let me out on a mission again so soon, I guess. Or maybe they’ll leave me here, in this horrible modern world. Who knows…

Good thing I had planned ahead and secured a result at least with Big Tony!

Hey, don’t laugh, baby, it makes you cough, you know it. Oh, ok… you’re right, all and all, this mission  _is_ quite fun!

 

Now, you silly… I said, STOP LAUGHING!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tilda:  
> of course, actress Tilda Swinton, globally famous and still full of charm and mystery, a friend of David’s (she appeared in his video for The Stars Are Out Tonight) and maybe the only other human being on this Earth who looks like she came from the same planet as him. As we could expect, sexes are interchangeable on that planet, and those two showed it rather successfully, disguising themselves as each other (like here https://pbs.twimg.com/media/DXxdDJxX4AIz41B.jpg ).
> 
> NY in the snow:  
> a great picture by a great photographer, Vivienne Gucwa. Her shots would make anyone fall in love with New York.
> 
> Big Tony:  
> in this story DeFries is a sinner bound for Hell. Well, similarly, Dante Alighieri filled his Inferno with people he didn’t like… :-D
> 
> Song reference: Always Crashing in the Same Car.
> 
> A final remark.  
> In this story, borrowing inspiration from Bowie’s life, and in which his character deals with guilty conscience and the need for making up to people, his half-brother Terry Burns doesn’t enter the equation. It’s because their story belongs only to them brothers, and not here in this fiction or any other of mine.

**Author's Note:**

> The bitter seed at the heart of my inspiration was a horrible comment I saw somewhere on Youtube immediately after Bowie’s passing, on the following day, I think. It read something like: “Finally, the Devil has come to collect his debt….”. It left me so bewildered that I couldn’t even reply. I just wondered who could be so terribly cold-hearted, alien and unaware of the tide of love and grief that was to follow. For a moment, my grief was poisoned, then I thought that, besides everything else, that comment was unbearably simplistic and to lash at its author would be equally simplistic. So maybe I could try and put some complexity back where it had been brutally stripped from. I would dilute the poison into a story, so I started to imagine: How would HE actually play this? A sort of film started to roll out in front of my eyes and… here it is.  
> As usual, I don't own anything but my fantasy and my writing. Especially, I don't own the pictures.
> 
> This 8-chapter story is already written, and I'll try to post it quite regularly, just revising it a little. Tags and relationships will be completed by and by, including maaany characters and stuff.  
> Of course, I’d be thrilled to get comments… if only to know that somebody out there is reading?  
> Just keep in mind, it’s all written out of love and fascination. For ever and ever.
> 
> Spiral


End file.
